“You haven’t seen him in three hundred years?” He asked. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. If you’ll forgive my saying that, and implying what goes with it. Gentlemen, I am proud to say that I originated—that I directed those measures.
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